


The World Was Built for Three

by NewWonder



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bilbo bossing people around, M/M, a fix-it of sorts, also this is really cheesy I warned you guys, ill attempts at humour are my forte
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:52:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewWonder/pseuds/NewWonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Soulmate!AU.] Marks manifested themselves in strange forms, and Fili and Kili's certainly wasn’t the oddest.</p><p>(Or, in which Bilbo's bum draws avid interest.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1. Fili

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a lovely [prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3138.html?thread=3855682#t3855682) on the kink meme but doesn't exactly follow it. Well, what can you do. I genuinely tried. *facedesk* The prompt is as follows:
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> **Soulmate AU- Bilbo/Anyone but Thorin or Bofur**  
>   
> 
> _Exactly what it says on the tin. We've had a lot of great soulmate fills, but so far all the ones I've seen have been Bilbo and either Bofur or Thorin, so I'd love to see one where Bilbo's soulmate is anyone else._
> 
>  
> 
> _Really, anyone else, except the married ones: Kili, Nori, Bifur, Fili, Gollum, Smaug?_  
>  I am partial to Kilbo and a three-way Fili/Bilbo/Kili (FiBilKi? KiFilbo?) soulbond would be an interesting twist if anon feels like going that way, but it's not required.
> 
>  
> 
> _And any kind of soulmates is fine: marks, red strings, heartsongs, glowing halos, linked dreams, matching birthmarks?_
> 
>  
> 
> _\+ 100 if hobbits and dwarves have different methods and this leads to lots of pining and misunderstandings._
> 
>  
> 
> _+1000 if it also leads to everyone thinking someone else is Bilbo's soullmate before it gets resolved with a happy ending._
> 
>  
> 
> It has already been filled once, and that fill was beautiful and sad and made me throw things at my monitor out of sheer frustration. So I wrote another, which isn't nearly as lovely as the first one but I hope will nonetheless amuse you.

Some marks, they said, manifested themselves in the shape of the name of the other half of one’s soul, written as if in the mate’s own handwriting; circling one’s wrist like a wedding bracelet or hidden securely on one’s breast, emblazoned over the heart like a seal.

What a shame, Fili pondered while he idly contemplated the lush green scenery of the Shire, his pony stopping every now and again to graze on the tall balmy grass by the side of the road, that the lucky bearers of such marks were so few and far between. Beyond doubt, it was far easier to find your soulmate when you actually knew their name, and having a sample of their handwriting could also be of substantial help... if the folk in question was more or less literate, of course. But then again, who wasn’t? Out of all the peoples in Middle-Earth, only orcs were mostly illiterate, and a great number of humans too. Yet, Fili supposed, it was improbable that their mate should be of another race, much less that of the orcish one. Elves themselves seemed to be more likely to produce a soulmate to a dwarf – now that he thought of it, that soulmate might just as well be a halfling, of that strange fussy little folk they had had the necessity to acquaint themselves with.

Fili didn’t even try to hold down a snort. The thought seemed fairly ridiculous – nearly as much as the prospect of having an orc for a mate. At least orcs knew how to fight. It seemed no true warriors dwelled in this land of farmers and gardeners, and their women’s faces looked strangely naked and disconcerting.

Kili glanced at him curiously, but Fili shook his head and deftly snatched a big red apple from a branch hanging low over the road. Its sides glistened, catching the sun; a merry vibrant red speckled with golden freckles, cool to the touch and heavy in his palm. Fili bit into it with a loud crunch, and copious juice dribbled past his lips and onto his beard. The apple flesh was succulent and sweet on his tongue, with just a hint of tartness underneath; fresh, ripe and fragrant, and as generous as this rich, peaceful land.

Fili chewed vigorously, then gulped down with great gusto and threw the apple core far into the field, casually licking his lips.

Say, what could one make out of their own mark? Their, not his, – because while six years separated Fili’s birth and his brother’s, for all the world they were as inseparable as twins born holding onto each other. They were so dissimilar in everything – appearance, bearing, disposition, weapons of choice, – that in the end it seemed as if they were day and night, two opposite halves of a variegated whole.

Only they weren’t, and somewhere out there in the world there was one to match them, to complete them, a missing third part of their single soul. And there was a hint, a promise, a shade of that presence written out on their skin in swirls and dashes of colour, a reserved, graceful pattern entwining with a darker, bolder one, a bit blobby yet but reaching all over the place, impossible not to look at; interweaving with a light, cool one, like sun and snow and mountain ice. Yes, it was restrained, that strange, familiar pattern, but its colours were so bright and vibrant it almost hurt to look at them.

Fili didn’t have a mark at first, when he was born and until he was five; that, he remembered surprisingly well. Then Kili came into the world, and with him, the colours.

They were blurred at first, not so much a pattern as vague splodges, shapeless still, and yet already interlaced, like veins in a slab of marble. The grown-ups marvelled and whispered, but their ever-strict mother never said a word.

It was not unheard of, if rare, for someone to have two soulmates in one life – only not at the same time. And no-one ever shared a mate with another – the dwarves guarded their treasures jealously, and there was no bigger treasure than a soulmate, valued above gold and silver, more precious than diamonds and mithril.

Kili grew up tall and outrageous, and Fili dutiful and calm, and he was all of twenty-two years of age, Kili a mere child of seventeen, when their mark blossomed.

They woke up one day in their beds, and suddenly there were patterns, blurry but distinct already, and Fili, enraptured, recognised another beside Kili and himself in the painting on their skin – a presence distant but undeniable, and for the first time he felt the longing that would come to follow him through the years. It was merely a short pang in his gut that time, and it passed in a short moment, but the hollowness remained, ever since then a constant companion at their side.

It bloomed further, their love yet unfound, a touch of destiny on their skin; it grew, looking more marvellous by the day, and it was winter, long and hard and cold and forty-third in Fili’s life, when tendrils of red shot through the rich green and teal blue and yellow more radiant than gold itself. Thin they were and angry, like deep bloody gashes in skin; Kili grew gloomy and restless after looking at them, and Fili himself felt a strange fear. The wolves howled so loud that winter that it reached into towns and reverberated in the Blue Mountains, chilly and haunting.

It faded afterwards, the ominous red, but it never disappeared. It felt like a scar on their skin; sometimes, it nearly hurt as one.

 

Marks manifested themselves in strange forms, and theirs certainly wasn’t the oddest. Some elves, they said, had flowers bloom in their eyes, the irises taking on the shape of bluebells or hemlock; some dwarves were born with silver hair, coarse and glimmering, cool and wiry to the touch. Those marks didn’t make any sense, as most marks were wont to do, and they didn’t necessarily match; but they were beautiful, and somehow two mates always knew that the mark was for them. Once there was a dwarf who had a shape of another’s palm mapped out on her hand, like a great mole; only the shape grew and aged, and one night it lost two fingers, thick and battle-strong, and later one day, it grasped desperately around the wrist of Dis daughter of Thrain, and stayed like that ever since, even when their kin brought Father’s body into Mother’s house, clutching the battle axe in a death grip with his sole remaining hand.

Some heard whispers, they claimed, of a voice unknown yet familiar, and so they learned all the tones and shades of that voice long before they heard it with their own ears. Some caught smells, whiffs of thoughts and moods; those ones often found their soulmates sooner than the others. Some heard melodies – songs, humming underneath their skin. Dwalin’s song had gone quiet after Smaug came; he never learnt whose it was. And Fili and Kili’s baffling, beautiful mark grew and spread like living tapestry, and Mother once told them with mock chagrin, after they’ve ruined another perfectly fine set of clothes during one of their long-drawn hunts in the mountains:

“I swear I’d skin you brats and sell that paintwork on your backs to the first merchant visiting, if only the drawings would hold. I only have two hands, and I won’t even need that many to carry all the gold I can waste on getting new breeches for your sorry behinds. When, pray tell, will you grow up already?”

She was in a good mood that day, and unusually wordy. She mended their breeches and gave them a swat on their arses with a motherly hand ( _Dwalin_ never hit them that hard, Kili cried, rubbing the smarting place, and Fili had no choice but to agree), and the mark remained thankfully attached to their backs (and chests, and tummies, the patterns creeping below the waist already).

It was odd how the mark would disappear from the body when its bearer died. Fili wondered about it, once; it was strange to imagine his body white and smooth, without the bright colours blooming through skin, without the patterns he knew so well he could trace them in the darkness without a single fault. He shared his thoughts with Kili, who thought long and hard then, and later whispered to him in the night, when they were camping in the woods:

“D’you think we’ll find him?”

“Huh?” Fili answered intelligently. It was excusable; he was drowsy and tired to the bone.

“Him. Our mate. It’s been so long and he’s still not showing up.”

“...Why do you think it’s a _he_?” The thought bothered him, a bit. He never paid the sex of their mate any mind, and when he imagined what that mysterious mate had to be like, he didn’t think of soft, round breasts or narrow lean hips – only the skin he imagined, white and smooth, painted with the essence of the three of them, and the hands, small and delicate, to tangle in Fili’s hair and let his braids loose, and the lips to kiss until they were flushed and swollen. He never looked at other men like that, too; nor did he fancy women, of dwarven blood or of human. He had waited, for their promised one to come, for the right and only one, more so because no-one else he’d met seemed worthy of wasting his time on them. Kili’d meanwhile had quite a few flings, though, with both men and women. He was also waiting, Fili knew, but his brother was never one to refuse a bit of fun.

And yet his voice sounded so wistful now, so sad and yearning. Fili wondered if the longing cut even deeper into his little brother, ever so fiery, in whom the heart spoke louder than the mind.

He mulled over the thought. Could they have been destined to share their life with another male? The idea seemed odd and unsettling, and yet deep down he felt a strange acceptance. Perhaps he had known, all this time. Perhaps he just didn’t let himself realise it.

“I just know,” Kili spoke then, confident as you please. “Don’t you feel it, yourself? I wonder why he tarries so. Surely he must know we’re waiting.”

Fili, pensive, habitually brushed his fingers against a solitary lick of living colour that strayed on his forearm. It was brilliantly green, like grass growing through his flesh. The skin even felt different there, cooler, softer, more pleasant to the touch.

He couldn’t care less who or what their mate was, he realised with a somewhat surprising lack of surprise. Male, female, it didn’t matter a whit as long as he was theirs.

 

But they had arrived. The door of the hobbit hole was a generous green, and the thin lines of Gandalf’s rune glowed mysteriously in the growing dusk. Kili grinned enthusiastically and rapped at the door, and soon, the steps grew louder, and with them, the irate grumbling.

When master Boggins (Baggins?) opened the door, they didn’t see him for who he was. His body was all wrapped up in rich checkered fabric, and fair fluffy curls securely covered the back of his neck. Yet Fili felt his brother stiffen and take the halfling in, with his eyes wide open and unblinking. He thought it odd then, but brushed the notion aside in favour of more pressing matters.

So, this was the burglar. By Mahal, he sure didn’t look like one.

Soft he was, and somewhat squeaky, this little halfling dressed in lush fabrics and looking to the world as if he’d never seen a true peril in his life (not that Fili and Kili themselves had seen much of that – and yet, and yet). He came across almost like a woman, what with his constant nagging and fretting and lavish clothing and unsettling lack of beard. He guarded his carpets and doilies like a hen would its nest, and yet his eyes were strangely unguarded, soft and clear like water under the sun. Fili looked at that strange creature, small and homely and entirely unsuited to a task as dangerous as theirs, and scoffed mentally.

He thrust his weapons into the halfling’s arms, and Boggins sputtered. Kili cheerfully wiped his boots on a masterfully-crafted, old-looking glory box, and Fili briefly thought it unlike his brother. Certainly, Kili’s manners were dubious at the best of times, but it was still nothing like him to disrespect the skill of one’s hands so. But it sounded and smelled in this strange dwelling like there was food, and Fili, unsatisfied with the stolen apple, absentmindedly let it go.

 

He had to remember his brother’s strange brazenness, though, when Kili mocked the unsuspecting halfling several days later.

Bilbo’s bottom must have hurt dearly, as unaccustomed as he was to riding all day long, and his fastidiousness wasn’t making their journey any easier for him, what with sleeping on the ground and bathing in the rivers with coarse sand instead of both sweet-smelling soap and a soft sponge. In all honesty, though, he fared better so far than Fili expected. At least the amount of whinging was almost tolerable.

But the halfling got so scared at Kili’s thick-skinned joke, almost like a rabbit. Only he had no hole in the ground to hide in, not anymore. It was a bit amusing and quite pathetic – but Fili supported the joke, of course, how could he not. It was his brother, after all, who had started it.

His brother, who sniggered under his breath, until uncle Thorin checked him sharply; who wouldn’t let the burglar past without picking on him, or teasing him in some way, thoughtlessly cruel like he could be sometimes.

The halfling was but a nuisance in their quest, hardly someone to be welcomed, but that strange wickedness of Kili’s was new, unpleasantly surprising and entirely unwarranted. Fili resolved to ask his brother what about Mr Baggins pissed him off so much, but then Balin started a tale about great deeds of the past, and Fili listened raptly, despite having heard that story many times.

This old sorrow, this undying memory was theirs, too: their burden to carry, their revenge to take, their dream shining like the Arkenstone from afar, calling out to them. This grief, this dream was something they were born with, grew up with, fell asleep and woke up with. The past was alive, here, in the figure of their leader and rightful King who vowed to take them home; of the proud heir to the House of Durin the Deathless, the first and greatest King of _Khazad_ ; of the brother of Fili and Kili’s mother, the one who brought them up when their father fell.

King Thorin looked upon them when Balin fell silent, and it was then when Fili realised, as if for the first time, with striking clarity, that he would follow him, and fight for him, and die for him, and praise destiny for letting him do so.

He never asked Kili what about their phony burglar ruffled his feathers so, though, – and soon after that night, the affair with the trolls happened.

 

They had been reckless, he supposed, and not that any of it was the burglar’s fault. But Kili fastened the task of retrieving the ponies on the halfling, as was his wont, and Fili went along, like he always did. It was only fair that the halfling make himself useful, after all.

They’ve seen everything that happened next, and they looked into each other’s eyes, never exchanging a word, and Fili nodded and rushed off to bring the others, leaving Kili to see to it that Bilbo wasn’t lost because of their foolishness. His brother was already fighting when Fili returned with help, and never in his life had Fili seen him to fight a battle so desperately and give up so unwillingly. He might have thought it unusual if it weren’t for the dire happenstance they found themselves in. He struggled for a while in his sack but found it futile and let go. All they could do was to wait – for a miracle, if nothing else.

And then Bilbo started saying some truly despicable things, the measly ferret. An outraged Fili even made a widely unsuccessful attempt to bite their traitorous burglar on the hairy ankle.

The sun rose, and a miracle happened, and then Kili was smiling blindingly at the halfling, never minding the jibes that rose among the newly freed dwarves. To be fair, Fili himself thought ‘the biggest parasites’ were mighty stupid. But Kili was too preoccupied with the grumbling halfling to care, and then, Fili started feeling his suspicions grow.

Those only strengthened some time later, when they made free out of the foul goblin caves (and for a dwarf to call a cave foul, that truly had to be some hideous place), and found out the hobbit was lost.

Fili felt a sinking feeling then, a mute disbelief. He got used to the halfling, even started respecting him a bit. Bilbo had a place now, among them, one of the company, and Fili was loathe to lose him to these unwelcoming mountains.

Kili went mad, it seemed. He looked around like he was expecting Bilbo to crawl out from under a rock or appear out of thin air, and when Thorin stated, with grave finality, that their halfling was gone, the disappointment on Kili’s face was so bitter as if it wasn’t the company that Bilbo betrayed, but rather Kili himself. He looked away quickly, and Fili watched the company, concerned.

But Bilbo protested suddenly, having come rather out of thin air indeed, and Fili’s doubts won over the breathless delight his brother unexpectedly showed upon the sight of their burglar. Kili certainly grew attached to the halfling, Fili observed offhandedly. One could only wonder how it came to be, after all those taunts and pranks.

But then they promptly had to rescue their lives, _again_ , and Fili was, frankly, far too preoccupied to pay mind to his brother’s mysterious ways of treating friends.

 

It all came clear during their stay in the house of Beorn. Kili got piss-drunk on mead and blatantly ogled Bilbo’s arse.

 _Everybody_ noticed, even uncle Thorin who usually paid no mind to suchlike trifles (well, everybody except the burglar in question who was quite content to hold converse with their host, never paying mind to the noisy company); Kili wasn’t exactly subtle. So that’s why he behaved so strangely around the halfling, Fili thought, chagrined, and berated himself for not noticing it earlier.

“We have to wait, you know,” he scolded a hung-over, morose Kili next morning. “We were promised, remember? He’ll come one day, or we’ll find him. Until then, we have to wait.”

“I’m sick and tired of waiting!” Kili suddenly exploded. “Who says I have to bow to the whims of some unseen daubster who, for some bullshit reason, chose to use my arse as canvas?” (The patterns spread as far as his calves now, somehow expanding further on Kili’s skin than on Fili’s.) “Nobody chooses for me except me alone! So if I want to have Bilbo instead of some tardy shit, then I will!”

“...You don’t mean that,” Fili managed, shaken.

“Watch me,” Kili retorted grimly. From that day on, he was often seen in the company of the halfling, and Bilbo didn’t seem to mind.

It hurt Fili deeply to see how his brother’s face glowed. A dull, insistent pain it was, a mourning for what maybe was now never to be. At least now he recognised Kili’s cheek towards Bilbo for what it was: foolish pigtail-pulling, as if their respectable Mr Baggins was a girl and Kili some love-struck green youth (which he, in fact, was). But no-one could escape what was written in the book of fate, he thought grimly, and Kili would learn it in time – in a much harder way than Fili would have preferred.

They had travelled far into the dreary wood after they left Beorn’s hospitable house, and wandered deep into the wild where the sun never shone even in the brightest midday and the darkened boughs whispered ominously. The company had gotten gloomy, and the dwarves rarely spoke. They had taken to keeping a wary eye on the trees and looking around fearfully, as if nameless creatures would spring out of the growth and gulp them down any time. The only one who wasn’t reluctant to talk these days was, unsurprisingly, Fili’s foolish little brother.

Kili had gotten secretive as of late, and a stupid, besotted smile never seemed to leave his face. He and the burglar became thick as thieves these days, and Kili hardly ever left the halfling’s side. He chattered on and on, about utter rubbish as far as Fili was concerned, but Bilbo just listened and nodded with a favourable smile. Once Fili accidentally saw them kiss while they were hidden by the canopy of branches shadowing the road, thinking idle eyes wouldn’t see them, and had to look away and gnash his teeth because of the blinding-hot fury exploding behind his eyelids.

Kili got distant, as if the halfling was the only thing in the world worth caring about, and to Fili it felt like winter had fallen early. And Bilbo wasn’t their destined one, and it was a betrayal of the worst kind that Kili committed, not only of their unfound love far away but also of Fili himself. But the worst thing... the worst thing was that Fili was getting tired of waiting, too. Fili looked at the halfling and saw how Kili could choose him over their destined one, their promised one who was meant to suit them like nobody else. Many sleepless nights Fili spent, tossing and turning on the ground, and got up in the morning that was morning because Thorin said so and not because the sun glimmered through the boughs (in these woods, it never did), just to see Kili make a goof of himself and Bilbo laugh good-naturedly, looking at him with quietly shining eyes.

Bilbo was steady and reasonable, just enough to balance out his unruly brother, and adventurous enough to not be (too) boring, and brave enough to earn Fili’s respect, and clever enough to rescue their hides when needed, and kind enough to not hold grudges against them who wronged him more than once, and with a mouth soft enough to make Fili’s sleep restless. Fili wouldn’t mind him being their One, not at all, now that he thought of that. But Bilbo didn’t bear any kind of mark on his skin (at least where it was visible), and Fili reluctantly let a moment’s wild hope go.

The spiders, though, were an unpleasant, if not entirely unexpected, reality.


	2. 1. Fili (contd.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gawd look at y'all lovely people! And especially NekoIzumi, you fine person you (seriously, that was one of the best comments I've ever received)! Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the kind encouragement. Totally wouldn't get my arse in gear to post the second chapter today if it wasn't for you all. This is the continuation of Fili's POV because it got huge and had to be split in two. The next chapter is Bilbo's POV. After all, it would be unfair to let our resident slick dwarf do all the talking, no?  
> This one's kinda angsty, but I promise it gets better. There are still two chapters to go, one Bilbo's POV and one Kili's, but they will be posted together b/c they're quite short and wouldn't be any fun if read in two passes.

The elven king’s palace was all caves and ancient silent stone, and felt much more familiar than the gloomy woods. But prison was still prison, no matter good the simple food they got tasted. The exhaustion still lingered deep in Fili’s bones, the outgrowth of their travels and battles, and the humiliation of being jailed like a common thief left a bitter tang on his tongue – and his brother wasn’t near.

He was strung-up and jittery by the time Bilbo first came to visit him, and a quiet voice from behind the iron bars caught him by surprise.

“Are you well?” Bilbo called out, now visible in the dim light of the elvish prison, and Fili very nearly threw himself at the bars, so abruptly Bilbo staggered back, startled.

“How’s Kili?” he demanded. “Where are they keeping him?”

“A long walk from here,” Bilbo sighed. “He is relatively well, and he’s been asking after you. What should I tell him?”

“Fine, I’m fine,” Fili shrugged off the concern evident in the halfling’s voice. “When do you think can we escape?”

“Now hold your ponies,” the burglar backed away from the intent gaze Fili levelled at him. “I barely have any idea where we are, and I haven’t even had my breakfast tod–”

“ _We have no time_ ,” Fili growled, suddenly furious. “Winter grows closer. You’ve proven yourself adept and capable recently, and I thank you for saving me and my brother from the spiders, belated though my gratitude may be. Now stop whining and get us out of here before we’re late for Durin’s Day.”

Bilbo watched him, still and wide-eyed. He tried to pull back when Fili, entirely losing his cool, grabbed the halfling by the collar of his dusty, mud-stained shirt, and the ragged fabric didn’t survive it.

A glimpse of his chest opened in the rip, a sudden bloom of colour. Blue, gold, green, so bright it blinded Fili even in the near darkness of the dungeon, a pattern different from Fili’s and Kili’s, but somehow fitting them as if the three of them were some broken parts of one bigger picture.

Fili forgot how to breathe. He gaped, speechless, as Bilbo self-consciously pulled the edges of the cloth together and stepped back from the bars.

“Why – why didn’t you tell me?” he finally rasped. His mind was blank, numb, and the only thing his eyes saw was a glimpse of gold blossoming on white skin, entwined with green in a tight embrace, softly glowing, it seemed, from under the torn edges.

Bilbo’s eyes widened, and then – he laughed. It was an odd laugh, shrill and disbelieving, and Fili scowled, believing himself to be ridiculed.

“So that’s how it is,” Bilbo finally murmured, nodding to himself, when his bizarre laughter died. “I should have known, really.”

“Wait – Kili didn’t tell you?” The betrayal struck Fili like a hammer. His brother could be careless and rather harebrained, but Fili had never known him to be selfish. To think that he would keep their mate from him, to hoard this treasure all to himself–

“Oh, he doesn’t know,” Bilbo stated matter-of-factly, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his tattered green vest. “I never told him about my mark, and he never realised. Hardly the brightest, our Kili, is he?” his eyes were so astonishingly tender Fili had to bite his lip. He must have drawn blood – there was a coppery taste on his tongue, but it barely registered. Fili was _watching_. “I’ve seen his, though. It’s all over his arms already, soon he’ll have to wear gloves all the time to cover it.” Bilbo chuckled fondly. “I think I knew even before that, though, – that he was mine, and I was his. But I would never have thought that you–” he squinted at Fili in the gloom, “How is that even going to work?.. Ah, well, I’m sure we’ll figure something out. But you have to rest, it’s been a trying couple of days.”

“…Are you saying,” Fili inquired flatly, “that my brother haven’t had you yet?”

Bilbo sputtered at the bluntness, but, for once, Fili did not have the patience for niceties. He was far too busy feeling vastly disappointed. Kili certainly hadn’t been so chaste only a few months ago. To think that he would develop an entirely unnecessary sense of decency where he otherwise would have spared himself and his older brother weeks of torment, all because he failed to get Bilbo naked as soon as possible! Fili resolved to give his foolish little brother an ear-boxing of his life after they all got out safely. Meanwhile, he asked:

“You say you knew even before you saw the mark. How?”

“I’ve no idea. I just – knew,” Bilbo mused. “I guess I felt it somehow. After all, who else but him? But I knew that something – something wasn’t right. As if he wasn’t enough, or was lacking somehow. I gave myself quite a bit of grief over that, you know?” he said with a conspiratorial smile. “It seemed so ridiculous. It’s Kili, after all. Who on earth would want him to be any other way?” He shrugged. Fili’s breath caught in his chest, and he hesitantly stretched out his hand.

“May I touch it? The mark?” he asked.

Bilbo chewed on his lip hesitantly; then nodded, just once, and opened his chest where flowers bloomed and whirlpools brimmed and paths winded and constellations danced with the sun and the moon.

Fili could gaze at it forever, lost in silent wonder. He traced the patterns lightly with his fingers, revelling in the softness of the skin, in its smooth, silky texture. His thumb caught on a nipple, and Bilbo gasped involuntarily. Fili raised his eyes, feeling lust slowly simmer and spread through his body, and said:

“Go. Tell him I’m alright. Come back tomorrow.”

It came out hoarse and choky, and Bilbo jerkily nodded, closing the cloth over the mark. But he lingered near the bars, looking unsure, and Fili didn’t have the will to step back.

“Right,” Bilbo said abruptly and decisively drew himself to full height before marching over to where Fili tarried and giving him a long, hard, heady kiss.

Then he disappeared, the invisible warmth of his lips ghosting over Fili’s one last time, and Fili never heard him leave. He staggered to his cot and fell down gracelessly, bewildered, overwhelmed and happy to the point of bursting. A ridiculous smile stretched his lips, and Fili suddenly thought that he probably looked now just like his stupid little brother.

How he missed him. How he missed them both already.

 

When they were finally out of the barrels, grumpy, soaking wet and gloriously free, Bilbo met his eyes and wriggled free out of Kili’s arms. Kili looked at his hands, disappointingly empty, and frowned confusedly, clearly not understanding why they were so shamefully devoid of one soft and ridiculously cuddly halfling. He made a move to attach himself back to Bilbo, limpet-like, but Bilbo escaped nimbly, and Fili moved to hold his brother in place, taking in his face – slightly thinner now, scraggly hair hanging around it limply, cheekbones more pronounced and beard a bit longer (if not long enough to be called an actual beard anyway). It was ridiculously happy nonetheless, that familiar and beloved face, and Fili watched it scrunch into a frown as the way Bilbo scampered closer to Fili sank in.

“What–,” Kili started, confusion and betrayal plain on his face, and Bilbo met Fili’s eyes and undid a button on his shirt. And then another one, and another one.

Kili’s jaw hang loose unattractively.

“Whut,” he said. “Whaaa.”

“Do you think we’ve broken him?” Fili inquired of Bilbo conversationally.

“Maybe he’s just horny after all that time in prison,” Bilbo shrugged. “I’ve seen what a bit of naked body can do to a desperate man, and believe me, it wasn’t pretty.”

Fili’s eyebrows travelled as far as to the very top of his head. Why, if he ever doubted that Bilbo was perfect…

“Urk,” Kili said. “What in the name of Mahal’s dick.”

And then he swooped Bilbo in his arms, spun him around and whooped joyfully.

“Well, I never doubted we would find you!” he declared shamelessly. “This is great, right, Fili? Jolly great, is what it is! I think we should celebrate.” He wagged his eyebrows comically, and Bilbo, still suspended in the air, laughed and kissed him on the nose before kicking him in the knee with an insistent demand to _put him down right now, thank you very much_.

“Well, aren’t you lot lively,” Bofur grumbled. He looked quite the worse for the wear, but it seemed the worst damage he sustained was a couple of bruises and a mighty bad case of seasickness.

“We travelled pretty comfortably, actually,” Fili smirked.

“Yeah, Bilbo must have chosen the best barrels for us!” Kili joined in cheerfully.

“Although I would have appreciated a trunk with a more neutral smell,” Fili made a wry face. “I’ll probably never be able to so much as look at apples ever again in my life.”

“Stop complaining and go help the others, you lazy louts!” Bilbo ordered, and Kili grumbled but still reluctantly wandered off to help Dwalin get up (the warrior tried to stand up on his own, but swayed dangerously and finally slumped down on the damp ground, gingerly probing at the big, shiny goose egg on his bald head). Fili distractedly followed him, thinking with growing trepidation what Kili and he were getting themselves into. He spotted a haggard, dripping, but nonetheless majestic uncle Thorin and made a move to speak to him, but felt a small gentle hand in his own and turned to look at Bilbo.

Their mate grinned and kissed him soundly in front of everybody else and a sulking Kili, and then strolled off to take care of a quite raggedy-looking Balin whose splendid beard looked more like a wet dirty heap of hay now. Fili stumbled over to uncle Thorin, dazed. Bilbo’s lips tasted faintly of apples, and Fili was ready to chop off his moustache if they weren’t the most delicious thing he had ever savoured.

Uncle just – looked at him.

“He’s – ours,” Fili waved his hand, still having trouble thinking clearly. He looked at Thorin and said again, this time with true conviction: “He’s ours. He always was.”

“So that’s how it is,” uncle nodded slowly. Cowardly relieved, Fili declared his announcing duty done and went off to help poor old Bombur who finally came to and started sneezing so hard the trees shook.

 

The celebration unfortunately had to wait until Lake-town and a bit after that, until Bilbo got better from the violent cold he had caught during their escape. Kili ate vigorously and drank heartily, never forgetting to toast the health of the grumpy, miserable halfling. Fili just smiled politely and held onto Bilbo’s arse under the table. Lately he discovered that Kili’s infamous show of interest in this fine part of Mr Baggins’ had not been entirely unwarranted. But while Kili had been happy to make a fool of himself in front of everybody, Fili would rather hold on to his treasures with all his might, so that they could never escape from him.

And Mr Baggins’ arse was a treasure alright; fine and plump and all around mouth-watering, it just begged to be squeezed and fondled, and Fili definitely wasn’t planning on stopping there. If his brother suddenly developed a gentlemanly streak, it was his loss. Not that Bilbo would mind a nice tumble between the sheets; he certainly looked quite up for it, Fili thought privately, even though sneezing, and coughing, and sniffling for all he was worth.

He also looked tired and morose, and Fili knew it was the thought of the dragon that troubled him, and of all the dangers that lay ahead still. Fili himself couldn’t bring himself to worry about. The feast was joyous, the food savoury, and even Thorin was smiling into his beard. Nori broke into a jolly song, and Bofur gamely pulled out his flute. It was good to have a bit of fun on their journey and not worry about what the future might bring.

It wouldn’t do for Bilbo to be sad in this happy hour, though. Fili deemed himself full and rose from the chair, dragging Bilbo along. Their halfling was listlessly picking at the food anyway, and that in itself was a sign that something was majorly wrong. Fili resolved to rectify it right that instant.

Kili spotted him herding an annoyed Bilbo out of the room and sprang from the table, clearly unhappy to be left behind. Fili waited for him in the corridor, sweeping their halfling into his arms and smothering him with slow languid kisses. He pressed his nose into Bilbo’s wavy hair and inhaled deeply. It smelt like home.

Bilbo wrapped his arms around Fili’s waist and reluctantly raised his face to meet Fili’s lips. He was warm and so small, so tender, so easily hurt. Fili felt like a giant next to him, one of those stone monsters they saw destroying each other’s bodies for fun in the midst of the great thunderbattle. He was to protect these two treasures of his with all his mountain-born might, he thought, kissing the hobbit’s eyes, puffy with cold, and soft lips that parted readily, and teasingly brushing his nose against Bilbo’s pointy ear.

“It tickles,” the hobbit complained, and laced his fingers with Fili’s.

“What do you think you’re doing, you – you bandit!” Kili finally joined them, flushed with annoyance. “Get yer paws off him, I saw him first!”

“It’s not my fault you didn’t seize the opportunity when it presented itself. I bet Master Baggins here wouldn’t terribly mind if you did,” Fili suggested. Kili blushed beet red and started sputtering. Bilbo snorted and resolutely started climbing the stairs.

“Hey, Bilbo, wait! Where are you going?” Kili called from below.

“Why, to your room, of course. It’s bigger than mine, and we can push those two beds together,” Bilbo raised his eyebrows, looking to the world as if he was sorely disappointed with Kili’s slow and all in all rather lacking wits.

“A-are you–? Do you mean to–?”

Fili has never seen his brother look so red in his whole life, and that was even when he fell face-first into a bucket full of lingonberries.

“Well, if it doesn’t sit well with you, I’ll content myself with your brother here. He looks quite eager, doesn’t he?” Bilbo quipped, taking Fili in, and licked his lips unconsciously. His tongue was pink and quick, and his lips glistened, flushed with recent kisses and wet with saliva. Fili decided he didn’t care enough to deal with his brother’s childishness when being presented with _that_.

Bilbo turned around and resumed walking up the stairs, and. That arse again. Fili could just _stare_ at it. But, of course, he had many other lovely things on his mind that he could do to it, so he hurried after it. After Bilbo. Whatever.

He heard Kili stomping behind him: his brother must have arrived to the same conclusion. They were always so very alike, Fili and his brother, and so vastly different at the same time (Fili being, of course, the smart, sensible one). They often liked the same things and thought the same thoughts; they even said them in unison. How well it was, how fitting, that they both should like the same person so much.

Bilbo was half-undressed already and neatly folding his clothes. Fili tarried, unsure whether to seize the chance to ogle the display or to start moving the beds. Bilbo frowned at him, and Fili shrugged and got down to business. He heard Bilbo screeching at Kili to follow his brother’s example and get his hands off, but Kili wouldn’t listen, it seemed, and Bilbo’s protests died very soon. Soon there was a lot of moaning and wet sounds going on, and Fili, finished with his quest, gladly joined in.

Bilbo’s neck seemed so delicate to him, open and bared like that. He brushed the hair away from it. Bilbo’s soft curls had gotten longer over the course of their journey, and Bilbo was talking of cutting them. Fili decided he would see to it that Bilbo kept his hair that way. Maybe one day they could braid it, the way it was done among _Khazad_ , to show everybody who would look that their hobbit had found his mates.

 

Later that night Kili dozed off, exhausted, but Fili didn’t feel like going to sleep just yet. He smoked his pipe, with his eyes half-closed, and languorously relished the feeling of Bilbo’s fingers in his hair.

Bilbo seemed fascinated by it. He let loose the braids that hadn’t come undone during their vigorous lovemaking and played with it like a cat might with a string.

“It’s golden,” he quietly marvelled. “Did some dwarven smith forge your hair for you? It shines like polished metal.”

“You like gold, then?” Fili inquired idly. “In that case, wait until we get back the lonely Mountain. They say there are mountains of gold in the treasuries of Erebor – so much gold you could drown in it, like in a river!”

“Yes, and there’s a huge fire-breathing dragon sitting on that gold, don’t you forget that,” Bilbo groused and fell silent. After a while he said, almost as if to himself:

“Anyway, I cannot possibly imagine the gold of all dwarven treasuries in Middle-Earth being more beautiful than this.”

Fili chuckled, put out his pipe and pulled him down under the covers. Kili breathed quietly on the other side of the bed. His arm felt around, found their halfling’s waist and wouldn’t let go. Bilbo soon fell asleep like that, but Fili stayed awake long into the night, thinking, pondering, wondering.

They had always been just the two of them; Fili and Kili, with no place for anybody else. They had friends, of course, tried and true, and Kili had had his share of lovers, mostly just as young and inexperienced as he was – but they could never trust another person so heedlessly, so entirely as they trusted each other. But that was before the quest; before the halfling. Bilbo fit so well into the small space between Fili and his brother, one could almost think he was born for it.

And he, in fact, was.

Fili got up to take a piss at some point, and when he came back, Bilbo cracked one eye open at him.

“Sleep, love,” he mumbled drowsily. Kili muttered something unintelligible; his hold on Bilbo’s waist tightened. Fili looked at them for a long while. Then he slid under the covers, his legs tangling with Bilbo’s. He made sure that the tips of his fingers brushed against his brother’s arm, and fell into warm, dreamless sleep.

 

Despite the cold shock of the Arkenstone, the Heart of the Lonely Mountain, having been seized by the enemy, Fili couldn’t help but gaze upon it and marvel.

How wondrous it was that their mountain birthed such treasure, and the skilful hands of _Khazad_ breathed life into it, and with it, beauty greater than any dwarf could ever hope to witness. And how unthinkable it was that the most cherished inheritance of Durin’s folk now shone in the arms of a human.

Then he heard a familiar voice uttering inconceivable words, and his heart stopped for a moment. He watched the confounded look on his brother’s face, and that was what persuaded him that he didn’t hear amiss.

Fili looked at the Arkenstone, then at Bilbo. The halfling was clearly frightened but trying to keep his calm. Their halfling, who stole their treasure and gave it away, just like that.

Bilbo seemed… different lately, a frozen Fili remembered; subdued, as though he had seen, or done, something he shouldn’t have. Bilbo _felt_ different, cold and remote in their arms, eyes distant and clouded. Kili had noticed it, of course, and worried, but he didn’t know it for what it was. Maybe Bilbo just grew sick and tired of all that cram, he said. He never saw the treason.

For it was treason, and Arkenstone wasn’t Bilbo’s to take or to give.

Of course, Fili thought, recalling their conversation not long ago. Why would he want the gold of Erebor if he already had it in mind to steal a treasure far greater?

Thorin lifted Bilbo above the ground. Uncle was furious, Fili noted detachedly; he was screaming. A strange feeling came over Fili: as if all of this was happening to somebody else, and Fili himself was just a remote spectator.

“I will throw you to the rocks!” Thorin shouted, his face red and fearsome. Bilbo’s feet were dangling in the air over the precipice. The walls of Erebor were tall, and the stones below hard and sharp.

Then Fili heard a feral, horrifying yell, and a dark shadow darted past him, slamming into Thorin with such force that the three of them toppled over to the floor. And then his own brother was sitting astride their uncle, fist drawn, his face contorted into a gruesome mask of rage.

Kili, the prince of Erebor and an heir to the House of Durin the Deathless, had just turned upon his mother’s brother; his King. And it was all Bilbo’s doing.

The shame lay heavy on Fili’s shoulders. Their mate; their responsibility; their disgrace. Fili just as well could have done it with his own hands; in the eye of his people, and his Maker, it was the same. There was no forgiveness for a deed like that, and no redemption.

He dimly noticed Bilbo frantically whispering something to Kili who still looked as if he couldn’t hear a word, and tugging him off Thorin, pulling him away until Thorin could get up. Fili wanted to laugh but couldn’t find it in himself. The halfling still thought he had the right to touch Kili.

He didn’t hear the deal they made, about the gold and silver and the burglar’s life; all he could see was Kili, breathing raggedly and staring angrily at Thorin, and Bilbo clinging to his hand. He never let go even as he explained the grisly details of his betrayal, and Kili didn’t push him away.

He drew the halfling into his arms and lay his palm on the handle of his sword when Thorin declared his judgement. Would he end up having to fight his own brother, Fili wondered numbly.

But then, Bilbo slithered away and made a move to leave.

“No!” Kili cried, aghast. “Don’t go Bilbo, you cannot!”

“I have to,” Bilbo said apologetically. “To be frank, I feel a bit like I deserved this. Don’t,” he warned when Kili opened his mouth to protest. “I must make it clear now that I do not regret my decision; I did what I had to do – in fact, I did what you lot hired me to do – but it’s no use reasoning with Thorin now, I guess. I do hope to come back someday, as a friend.”

Thorin growled and turned away from him. Bilbo looked rueful but he did not flinch.

“I am sorry,” he said quietly, just enough for Thorin’s ears to hear. “I know what the Arkenstone means to you. But I could not do other than I did.”

Then Bilbo looked at Kili and, for the first time, seemed unsure. Kili watched him, still and wide-eyed.

Bilbo took a step toward him but faltered.

“Get me down,” he told Bofur and turned away.

Kili jolted towards him, his face a raw, agonized mess – but still, Fili felt nothing. No regret, no anger, no despair; only a numb yawning void that rose up in him, threatening to swallow him whole. He held a struggling Kili with steady hands, and his mind was more calm and clear than ever, and the look that the halfling gave him was fearful.

Let him fear. The traitor deserved nothing less.

Their companions were whispering and mumbling, and many a dwarf had a peculiar uncomfortable, abashed look to him. Fili didn’t understand. Could they possibly think Bilbo right, with all the grief and humiliation he had just put them through?

But then, Bilbo resolutely marched back and kissed a crestfallen Kili hard, in front of everyone to see. He reached out his hand as if to touch Fili’s arm, but Fili just looked at him, and Bilbo pulled back, dismay in his eyes.

“Take care of him,” he finally said. “And. Just… take care.”

With that, he turned around and left, and Fili finally _felt_ something.

It was tearing at him from the inside, seeking to be let loose from his chest, like a great beast; long-clawed and sharp-fanged and white furious. It slashed at his breast until it felt like Fili was torn and bleeding, and then it turned inside, desolate to be trapped in the cage of Fili’s ribs, and ate his heart.


	3. 2. Bilbo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hereby present you with the dumbest plot twist in the history of evar. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> (Have I mentioned yet that you guys are fantabulously, batmantastically amazing? Thanks so much for all the support! Especially corcordium and NekoIzumi, you're so totally my stars!)

Bilbo thought of them as he struggled across the battlefield, to the place where the last glint of Thorin’s shining armour died. He thought about the two of them, his own stupid, reckless, wonderful dwarves, and swallowed the tears that threatened to spill.

He had to hurry.

 

_“What’s that – preening again, you beardless whelp? As if someone besides your mate would want to stare at your ugly mug!” Dwalin rumbled and slapped Kili on the back._

_“It’ll grow out! Eventually,” Kili protested habitually. While mostly not caring enough about all that self-grooming business, he did, from time to time, take efforts to brush his hair until it shone, and Bilbo was only too happy to assist him._

_“Ha! That elvish ponce Thranduil probably has a greater beard than you,” Gloin guffawed. He was Fili and Kili’s second uncle twice removed or something, and he seemed to have reserved the right to mock them good-naturedly._

_“Does he, really? Well, less hairy doesn’t always mean less comely. Yeah!” Kili insisted. “Take, for one, master Baggins.”_

_“And here we go,” Nori mumbled. Kili was sporting a truly terrifying lovesick expression on his face now. Bilbo deftly snitched his rake-comb from him and started brushing his hair, long and matted, dusty and not a little bit dirty but still handsome nonetheless. Kili relaxed in his arms, forgetting he was going to wax poetic about his mate but a moment ago, and Bilbo heard a relieved sigh from somewhere on the right._

_Fili watched them both, smoking his pipe on the other side of the bonfire and smiling slightly, and Bilbo couldn’t help but smile back._

 

He had to make haste, or otherwise he would be late, and that absolutely wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all; he was _always_ on time, he couldn’t possibly fall behind now, when it was all that mattered.

The battle cries were a muted echo in his ears. He tripped and nearly fell, but righted himself and looked down. What he saw was a mere rock in the earth, slippery wet with blood.

The group gathered around the fallen body of the King of the Lonely Mountain, so small in their shining armour against the dark tide of approaching orcs. Bilbo could see the red enamelled breastplate that Kili wore over his chest, and the glowing gold of Fili’s head. Then one of them staggered and fell, and the earth seemed to slip from under Bilbo’s feet.

 

_Their small room in Lake-town, warm and cosy, almost like a hobbit hole, smelling of their lovemaking. Kili would sleep like a log until noon, then Bilbo would bring him breakfast, or Fili rouse him with kicks to the ribs. One day they both came to get him, for an important dinner was scheduled, and both princes had to attend; and Bilbo with them, as their mate._

_Kili grumbled and refused to open his eyes. He looked utterly childish and so sweet that Bilbo couldn’t help but lean down and press his lips to Kili’s forehead._

_Kili finally opened his eyes – and grinned._

_Bilbo let out an undignified yelp when Kili yanked him down on the bed. Then his silly mate proceeded to attach his lips to Bilbo’s skin and would not remove them, no matter how Bilbo grumbled._

_“What are you standing there for?” he finally demanded. Fili just stood near the door and smiled obligingly. “Get him off me, we’re going to be late!”_

_“Oh, definitely,” Fili nodded agreeably and leapt into bed, boots and all. Bilbo gave a little squeak when Fili’s teeth nipped at his skin, just sharply enough to leave him breathless with excitement. Behind him, Kili laughed._

 

Late, he was going to be late, and everything would be over if he couldn’t get there in time. A cloud passed over the battlefield, obscuring the mercilessly bright sunlight, and the weak spark of dwarven armour faded. Somebody screamed, shrill and horrifying. Something splattered across Bilbo’s face, something warm and viscous; Bilbo felt the liquid with his fingers, and they came out red. A man was dying not four feet from him, an old, gaunt-looking commoner from Lake-town; he was coughing red and wheezing, a horrible cracked sound. Almost by his side, an orc with a bleeding stump for a leg was struggling to crawl over to a sword lying nearby, chipped and broken; but Bilbo didn’t stop. What little time he had was dwindling fast.

 

_The halls of Erebor, tall and breathtaking, every inch of stone a masterpiece of crafty hands and loving minds. The halls of Erebor, undeniably grand and almost intimidatingly magnificent and so cold no hearth could ever warm them, it seemed. The slow breath of the mountain, the timeless, unhurried life of stones – the halls didn’t seem lifeless, even now, after having been abandoned for nearly two hundred years. No, they were very alive – and Bilbo felt lost in their shadow._

_The halls of Erebor definitely had ridiculously tall ceilings for such a short people._

_Thorin obviously didn’t feel anything was amiss, though. He smiled more these days than throughout the whole length of their journey. He was home, at last._

_“I do not know why fate had chosen you for them, of all people,” he spoke up one night when Bilbo was leisurely smoking his pipe, no-one else around to hear. “The longer I know you, though, the more I’m starting to think those brats must have been born very lucky.”_

_Bilbo looked at Thorin and saw warmth in his eyes. No riches of the Lonely Mountain, no matter how splendid, were a sight more astonishing than this, Bilbo thought, and tentatively smiled back._

_“They’re good lads,” Thorin said with that astounding warmth in his eyes, “and in a hurry to live. I do believe they might grow into great men, given time. But pray, do not tell them I said that,” Thorin took a whiff of his own pipe and went on with polishing his elven sword, sharply glimmering in the flickering light of the torches._

_Of course Bilbo wouldn’t tell – what was the point? Even the blind could see how proud Thorin was of his nephews, so it was hardly news. Well, maybe to Kili…_

 

Bilbo fell down on his knees and jerkily tugged the ring off with numb fingers. The dwarves parted around him, as if apprehensive to come close.

Bilbo’s whole body shook, but not a single sound would come out of his throat. He helplessly raised his eyes to Balin, and the old sage warrior looked away, and wouldn’t meet his gaze. Dwalin stood with his head bowed. He had blood on his axe, on his hands, on his face. Blood was everywhere, seeping into the hard ground, cooling under Bilbo’s hands.

When he left Erebor, one thought plagued him: please do not let Kili follow him, please let Fili look after his brother. Valar saw, the youth was just thoughtless enough.

Whom was he trying to fool. Fili couldn’t even look after himself, the stubborn thing that he was.

Black, black blood caught in the golden tresses of his hair, matting them a ruddy brown. Beside him, Kili laid, a trickle of blood dribbling out of the corner of his mouth, his lips so pale they seemed almost white against the blackened blood of his life. His face was as tranquil as Bilbo had hardly ever seen it.

They didn’t seem sleeping, not at all. Not even in sleep had Bilbo seen such statuelike stillness in their faces. And yet they laid beside each other, just like a few days ago when everything had still been right, and there was only one thing missing.

There was no little gentlehobbit sleeping between them, and Kili had no-one to cling to, and Fili had no-one to groom his hair, to let it loose and slide the golden locks through gentle fingers and braid it again, so neatly that the intricate braids looked precisely the same every next morning.

Bilbo took their hands into his. Surely they waited for him. He was late, just the once, and he was so very sorry. But surely they had forgiven him. Surely they waited.

 

The halls he found himself in were tall, too, and wild grapes draped over the ancient stone, blending with the ancient-looking carving. The sun shone blazingly through the windows high in the walls.

Bilbo muzzily opened his eyes, blinked and stared.

An impossibly tall woman was leaning over him, silver-eyed and clothed in flowing green silk. Her long curling hair brushed the tip of his nose. It smelt earthy, of flowers and sweet, overripe fruit and fallen leaves. Her smile was kind yet somehow unnerving, the way a glance down a wide abyss could be.

She had an elven air about her, looking ageless and wise and more beautiful than Evenstar of Imladris herself, yet she felt somehow more feral, like earth itself, Bilbo thought. He looked around. He must have come here for a purpose; what could it be?..

“Where are they?” he breathed out. “Please, there were two dwarves, young and handsome-looking, you must have seen them. Where are they?” he pleaded.

“They are where they were meant to be,” a deep, distant voice rumbled. “In my halls. No-one can escape what is written in the book of fate.”

The man who spoke stood near, with his arms crossed on his chest. He towered over both the woman and Bilbo like a mountain, garbed in stone and iron, a crown of living flames resting upon his head, and his set face was impossible to read.

Bilbo remembered Kili, so careless, so utterly unwilling to obey destiny and all that drivel. His face stood before Bilbo’s eyes, smiling and carefree and so painfully beloved that Bilbo’s heart clenched.

“Well,” he decisively stood up and drew himself to full height, “I can argue with that.”

“Can you, now?” the woman was smiling. Flowers grew, bloomed and died in her hair. Her eyes were greener than the first spring leaves, a colour sharp and crystalline like Bilbo had never seen before.

“As a matter of fact, yes! Let’s see,” he started ticking points off on his fingers, “First, I got caught by trolls who wanted to make me into a pie. They didn’t, though. Then orcs nearly gutted us several times, but that’s old drivel, hardly worth mentioning, really. We could have gotten smashed by stone giants, eaten by that Gollum creature, devoured by the spiders (what is it with everybody trying to eat us, anyway?), roasted by the dragon – the dragon! – and yet we survived. Not to mention the constant lack of handkerchiefs!”

“I think I might have been meant to die in the caves under the Misty Mountains – I got lost, I didn’t know the way out, and that Gollum creature had very sharp teeth. Yes, there were only six of them, but I tell you, they were really sharp. And yet I survived. And this place is actually much more pleasant that those caves, if I say so myself, and in all probability way easier to find a way out of. So why wouldn’t Fili and Kili? Now give them back, please, we wouldn’t want to be late for supper.”

Maybe Bilbo was ranting. He was a bit nervous, though, so it was perfectly excusable.

“Do you really want to go back, halfling?” the woman’s gaze was intent, piercing, and Bilbo felt a chill run through him. “You knew suffering in your life. You knew pain when you were very young. Do you want to go back to that? My hold may not be as grand as my husband’s, but it is homely and bright, and rich with greenery. You could stay, and be happy. Why would you refuse it?”

Bilbo shuffled from foot to foot.

“It’s true,” he admitted. “I’ve hurt and I’ve lost… but the only way not to hurt is not to live. So thank you, and I’m sure your hold is lovely, but no, I don’t want to stay. Please show me the way to Kili and Fili, they must be getting bored, and believe me, you don’t want _that_ to happen to your halls.”

“Why is it that you desire to come back so fervently?” the woman inquired softly. “Is it, perchance, the desire for the gold and jewels of the Lonely Mountain that is driving you back?” And the tall man in stone garbs turned his head and watched him.

And Bilbo remembered the living gold of Fili’s hair threading through his fingers, soft and warm, so unlike those tall piles of cold hard glittering metal inside the Mountain’s belly, and so he answered:

“I have enough riches back at home to last me a lifetime – and this gold ring I have didn’t help save my Fili and Kili, so what use do I have for it?”

He raised his hand, and there it was – the ring glinted ominously on his finger, impossibly heavy, and the whole world suddenly seemed to fall silent around him.

“You may go,” the lady in green finally smiled, and it was as glorious and blinding as the sun suddenly shining through the thick branches of an ancient, deep-rooted tree. Bilbo closed his eyes momentarily, unable to look at its radiance. “But you have to pay the price to take them with you.”

“Name it,” Bilbo said resolutely. “You probably know I have nothing to offer but myself, but I will gladly pay what you ask of me, if I can.”

“That ring of yours,” the man finally spoke again. “Would you buy their lives with it?”

And at once Bilbo felt a horrible pull that tore at his innards, nearly turning him inside out. The voices he heard, a merry, cheerful one – Kili, as precious to him as his childish dreams of seeing elves once had been, and just as foolish, and just as beautiful; and a calm, measured one, with hidden passion lurking underneath – Fili, as dear to him as his maps and books and tales of old, and as much home to him as Bag-End was, once… not anymore, though. Not if these two weren’t by his side.

But then, there was a third one – a low ominous voice, harsh and hissing, wrapped in stifling darkness and spitting stinging poison, alternatively coaxing and threatening; it promised him all the might and riches in the world and eternal torment at the same time, it whispered of power and knowledge unknown and unseen, it spoke of the worst punishment for his insubmission and of the darkest secrets buried in Bilbo’s soul. The whisper rose until it was booming, a thunderbattle of threats, pleas and promises, until Bilbo fell on his knees, clutching at his ears and screaming his throat raw in a desperate attempt to drown the voice out. The giant man and woman looked at him from above, and there was pity in the piercing gaze of the green lady. The stony face of the smith clad in stone and iron and fire remained impassive.

But then, they came. First vibrant azure and fair gold, then Bilbo saw their smiling faces, and a moment later, he felt their hands on his. They helped him to his feet and brushed the lint off his waistcoat, and took his palms in their warm, _alive_ hands, and just like that, the voice was powerless.

The woman watched them, smiling, and the eyes of the man smiled, too. Bilbo tugged his dwarves on the sleeves.

“Let’s go,” he said. “It’s time for tea.”


	4. 3. Kili

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a two chapter update, as promised, so please make sure to read the third chapter before this one!

Kili wasn’t really sure what happened. He must have blacked out, and then there was Bilbo, and then uncle Thorin was dead.

He was glad Bilbo came back, though. It would have been so much harder without him. Kili cried after they buried Thorin, and Bilbo was there. Just him being there, it made everything so much easier to bear.

Fili didn’t cry, but he bit his lips like he was hurting. The wounds disappeared, as if Kili had never been pierced by arrows and spears, and the huge gaping would on Fili’s chest was missing. It was not the only thing that was missing, though.

The colours, their colours were gone, and the mark with them. Where Fili’s naked white bone once showed in his chest, now there was only naked white skin. But Bilbo was there, alive, and so were they, so nothing else mattered.

He asked Fili why, though, and Fili didn’t know. Sometimes he pretended not to know, but just wouldn’t tell. This time, that was not the case; Kili could read his brother’s face just as easily as the patterns of their mark, now gone as if it never even existed. Kili knew its every swirl and every shade, his own azure blue and Fili’s light golden tones, and the brilliant green that was Bilbo, and red traces of that old faded grief.

He asked Bilbo, too, and Bilbo said:

“It’s a mark in itself, I think. One of free will, and the power to choose your own destiny.”

“Paint over me,” Kili asked him then, and Bilbo blinked, visibly startled by the idea. But he found a brush somewhere, and some dye, and drew an awkward pattern that was nothing like their lost mark and still remarkably similar in some way. Fili saw this and asked for a painting, too, and afterwards, they jointly did Bilbo’s skin.

Their sheets that once had been white were all but destroyed, and Bilbo predictably grumbled a bit about that. The paint took awhile to come out, and, for that, Kili was glad.

Once he asked Bilbo after his golden ring – the magic one. Bilbo smiled and shook his head, and his eyes grew a bit sad.

“I sold it,” he said. “Needed to buy something very dear. The merchant wouldn’t negotiate.”

“Shame,” Kili said sincerely. “One nifty magic ring, it was. Hey, Bilbo, what did you buy?”

Bilbo leaned into him a bit. He wore dwarvish garbs now, like Kili once used to imagine him to. They looked mighty fine on him, especially with his still too-short hair done in elaborate braids, the result of Fili and Kili’s enthusiastic joint handiwork.

“Something much, much more precious,” their Bilbo answered.

**Author's Note:**

> This thing is actually complete, but I'm lazy and editing is a pain in the neck so I decided to post it in chapters. The updates should be fairly fast though.


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